Too Late to Love Me Now

I hunched over my desk, squinting at the property listings that blurred together after fourteen straight hours of work.

My fingers cramped around the pen as I scribbled notes on the Henderson Ranch portfolio—three million dollars' worth of prime Texas Hill Country land that could make or break Mark's quarter.

Just finish this, Lisa. Mark needed these comps ready for tomorrow's presentation.

The clock on my computer screen glowed 11:47 PM, but I couldn't stop now. Not when Mark had been so stressed about landing the Henderson account. Not when our company—his company, really—was still crawling back from the edge of bankruptcy just six months ago.

I reached for my third cup of coffee, cold now and bitter as prairie dirt, when a sharp pain shot through my chest.

The mug slipped from my fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor and sending coffee splashing across the Henderson files.

"Shit," I gasped, pressing my palm against my sternum where the pain pulsed like a second heartbeat.

The pain didn't ease. It spread like wildfire, racing down my left arm and up into my jaw. My breath came in short, desperate gulps as I fumbled for my phone.

Mark. I needed to call Mark.

My thumb trembled as I scrolled to his contact, but the screen seemed to swim before my eyes.

The office spun slowly, like being on a carnival ride as a kid, except this wasn't fun. This was terror.

"Mark..." I whispered into the empty office, but the word came out as barely a breath.

The pain exploded in my chest like a bomb going off, and I collapsed forward onto the desk, scattering papers and sending my laptop clattering to the floor.

The files I'd spent all day perfecting floated down around me.

The presentation. Mark needed these numbers. He needed—

Darkness swallowed me whole.

I woke up floating.

That's the only way to describe it—like being suspended in warm water, but without the wetness.

I could see my office below me, the mess of papers and broken ceramic, the overturned chair. And there, slumped over my desk like a marionette with cut strings, was my body.

I was dead. Actually dead.

The thought came with surprising clarity, considering I was apparently dead. My hair had fallen across my face, hiding my expression, but I could see the blue tinge already creeping into my fingernails.

How long had I been out? How long had I been... gone?

Mark. Oh God, Mark didn't know.

I tried to move toward my phone, to somehow call him, but I couldn't control this floating sensation. I could only drift and watch, tethered to this place by invisible strings I didn't understand.

Panic—or whatever passes for panic when one was dead—seized me. I had to find him. Had to tell him about the presentation, about the geological surveys that needed his signature, about the—

Focus, Lisa. You were dead. The contracts didn't matter anymore.

Just then, I felt a strange pull, like a compass needle finding magnetic north, drawing me toward Mark's corner office.

Somehow, I drifted through the wall—an experience that should have been terrifying but felt as natural as walking through a doorway.

And there, pressed against his desk in a passionate embrace, were Mark and Jessica Blair.

Jessica Blair.

Our 24-year-old assistant, the one who'd started six months ago with wide eyes and eager smiles, asking me to show her the ropes of Texas real estate.

The one I'd mentored, encouraged, even lent my spare blazer to when she spilled coffee on herself before a client meeting.

However, my husband's hands roamed her body with the ravenous hunger of a starved man, his mouth devouring hers like he was suffocating and she was his last breath.

I was still warm in the next room. You son of a bitch.

How long?

How long has this been happening right under my nose? How many nights did you whisper promises in my ear, only to slink back to her? How many lies did you feed me while you lay in our bed with my assistant?

How fucking long have you been betraying me?

Every late meeting. Every "client dinner" he couldn't take me to. Every time Jessica had lingered after work, asking "innocent" questions about Mark's preferences. Every knowing smile, every casual touch I'd dismissed as youthful enthusiasm.

I was dying myself to keep his company alive while he was screwing the help.

The betrayal cut deeper than any heart attack ever could.

At that time, a sharp knock interrupted their pawing session.

Mark jerked away from Jessica, smoothing his rumpled shirt as the office door opened to reveal Thompson, our biggest commercial investor.

"Mark, sorry to interrupt," Thompson said, "Wanted to discuss the Henderson project before I fly out tomorrow."

"Thompson! No problem at all." Mark's voice carried that smooth, confident tone he reserved for clients. "Have you met Jessica? She's our company's angel investor."

My ethereal form recoiled like I'd been slapped.

Angel investor?

Jessica stepped forward with a practiced smile, extending her hand to Thompson with the confidence of someone who belonged in boardrooms. "Mr. Thompson, such a pleasure. I've heard wonderful things about your development projects."

"Jessica here saved our asses," Mark continued, his arm sliding around her waist with casual ownership. "Hundred and fifty thousand dollar emergency investment when we were about to go under. Smartest financial decision she ever made."

Hundred and fifty thousand? I wanted to scream.

Jessica pressed closer to Mark's side. "Without my hundred and fifty thousand dollar emergency investment, Mark's company would have gone bankrupt long ago," she said with a coy smile.

"What?! A hundred and fifty thousand?! That's my money! The money I sold all my savings to save you!" I screamed into the void, but no one could hear my fury.

One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. My money. My savings. My commission checks from years of sixteen-hour days and skipped meals and client dinners where I smiled until my face hurt.

Thompson nodded approvingly. "Any woman who can spot opportunity like that at your age is going places. Mark's lucky to have found you."

Mark's eyes softened as he gazed at Jessica with a reverence I hadn't seen in years.

"Jessica saved my business, saved my life," he said, his voice laced with a depth of emotion I'd never heard him use about me.

She saved his business. She saved his life.

What about me? When was the last time Mark had looked at me with such admiration? When was the last time he’d credited me with anything beyond making his coffee and organizing his files?

Thompson shook Jessica's hand warmly. "Well, I'm impressed. Mark's always had good instincts about people."

Good instincts? He didn't even know where his money really came from!

The truth hit me: everything I'd believed about my marriage, my sacrifices, my love—all of it had been a lie.

And now, I was dead, condemned to an eternity of helplessness.